"That's it!--I don't know! I don't know! Luker, there's something come over me lately; I didn't used to be troubled with nerves." "You didn't." "I never was afraid of anything--or any one." "You weren't; you've always had the devil's own courage since you were a girl." "There's been nothing I daren't do." "It would have been better for you, perhaps, if there had been something; there's such a thing as daring to do too much." "You think so? Perhaps that's it; perhaps I have dared to do too much." "As to that you know better than I do; I'm not your father confessor, nor wish to be. The Lord forbid!" "I don't know how it is, but, lately, I've gone all to pieces. I'm afraid of all sorts of things. When that girl came this morning I was afraid of her; she frightened me out of my senses. I thought she was a ghost; I couldn't have moved or spoken to save my life; I listened to her like a stuck pig. Luker, things have upset me more than I thought anything could have done. I'm--I'm all a bundle of nerves." "It's that stuff you've been drinking." "Stuff? What stuff?" "When I was at your place yesterday I saw a decanter lying on the table; some of the contents had been spilled. I dipped my finger into the stuff and tasted it. It was ether. When women of your temperament take to drinking ether, that's an end of them." "But I've got to drink it!--I've got to! I never touch it unless I'm forced! Luker, if I didn't, sometimes, I should go stark, staring mad." "Then you'll go stark, staring mad. Ether's a royal road to madness for such as you. Better stick to gin." "Gin!--gin's no good; a barrelful would be no good when I'm like that." "I see--that's the point you've got to." He was eyeing her intently. "Is there any particular reason why you should be afraid of going into the room where that man died?" She became instantly conscious of the keenness of his scrutiny, perceiving that in it there was a new quality. Her manner changed. "Any particular reason? No; there's only the general reason that I'm all mops and brooms; that I start at shadows. Besides, I'm going into it, and you're going with me." "Am I? That's news." "Luker, if you'll come with me to Pitmuir, and stick to me while I find Cuthbert Grahame's money, I'll give you five hundred pounds." "Hard cash?--before we start?" "I can't do that; you know I can't do that. But, Luker, I'll give you a thousand when I've found the money. I'll set down my promise in writing; give you any sort of undertaking you like." "Yes; but suppose you don't find the money; suppose what that girl told you is nothing but a cock-and-bull story? I tell you plainly that I can't make head or tail of the whole business. I've no faith in the girl, or her story, or her motives. And I'm pretty sure that she has no intention, under any circumstances or on any conditions, of presenting you with Cuthbert Grahame's fortune, or of putting you in the way of getting it for yourself either."